


The Tale of Eilinel

by Minarker



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Betrayal, Class Issues, Corruption, Descent into Madness, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Ghosts, Mindfuck, Orcs Being Orcs, POV Female Character, Religion, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhappy Ending, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8830225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minarker/pseuds/Minarker
Summary: This is the real story of the life and death of Eilinel, wife of Gorlim the Unhappy...





	

Now among the companions of Barahir was Gorlim son of Angrim. His wife was named Eilinel, and their love was great, ere evil befell. But Gorlim returning from the war upon the marches found his house plundered and forsaken, and his wife gone; whether slain or taken he knew not. Then he fled to Barahir, and of companions his he was the most fierce and desperate; but doubt gnawed his heart, thinking that perhaps Eilinel was not dead. At times he would depart alone and secretly, and visit his house that stood amid the fields and woods he had once possessed; and this became known to the servants of Morgoth.

On a time of autumn he came in the dusk of evening, and drawing near he saw as he thought a light at the window; and coming warily he looked within. There he saw Eilinel, and her face was worn with grief and hunger, and it seemed to him that he heard her voice lamenting that he had forsaken her. But even as he cried aloud the light was blown out in the wind; wolves howled, and on his shoulders he felt suddenly the heavy hands of Sauron's hunters. Thus Gorlim was ensnared; and taking him to their camp they tormented, seeking to learn the hidings of Barahir and all his ways. But nothing would Gorlim tell. Then they promised him that he should be released and restored to Eilinel, if he would yield; and being at last worn with pain, and yearning for his wife, he faltered. Then straightaway they brought him into the dreadful presence of Sauron; and Sauron said: "I hear now that thou wouldst barter with me. What is thy price?" 

And Gorlim answered that he should find Eilinel again, and with her be set free; for he thought Eilinel also had been made captive. 

Than Sauron smiled, saying: "That is a small price for so great a treachery. So shall it surely be. Say on!" 

Now Gorlim would have drawn back, but daunted by the eyes of Sauron he told at last all that he would know. Then Sauron laughed; and he mocked Gorlim, and revealed to him that he had only seen a phantom devised by wizardry to entrap him; for Eilinel was dead. "Nonetheless I will grant thy prayer," said Sauron; "and thou shalt go to Eilinel, and be set free of my service." Then he put him cruelly to death. » 

_The Silmarillion_ _, Chapter 19: Of Beren and Luthien._

\- - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The first thing I want to say is that I am no important person, never was, and will probably never be. Young men dream of being as brave as Beren son of Barahir, maidens would happily give one or two centuries of their lives to look like Luthien Tinuviel, but who thinks of me? Who remembers me? 

Ah! Enough self-pity now, for as I have been told, it is better to be forgotten than remembered with hate, disgust or contempt (I don't really believe it though). 

Storytellers and bards hardly spend more than a few sentences relating my story. Well, maybe more than a few sentences, but all of them are from other people points of view. I have always wondered why what happened to me had to be seen through someone else's eyes, even my dearest husband's. After all, he wasn't there, he knew nothing. No living man ever knew, and no living being does now. For I am but the ghost of a long-dead woman, whose name was Eilinel wife of Gorlim. 

I don't want to remember much of my childhood. Joyful memories are painful. I don't want to know that there were happier times. I don't want to see my father coming home with gifts for me every day, I don't want to hear my mother singing me to sleep. I don't want to know that they doted on me since I was an only child, born more than 30 years after their wedding. 

I have less marvellous memories to remember, though. As I began to grow up, my parents began to feel old. And they grew bitter, for they feared death. And thinking back of that time of my life makes me be happy not to live anymore. 

My parents, whose mere existences haven't even been mentioned for centuries, were wealthy enough to dream of a good alliance for me. A good alliance meaning a wedding to a rich man, if possible coming from an aristocratic family. Of course. . . At the same time, they wanted me married as soon as possible, because they wanted to see at least their first grandson before their dying days. Of course. . . 

I thought my life couldn't have been any worse. . . Oh, how wrong I was! 

I was only a 13 year old maiden when they first got me engaged. The man they had chosen for me to marry was, if I remember well, in his late forties. And so very rich. I hated him from the very start, but sometimes I just hoped I would marry him and be a wealthy widow soon. I guess I have inherited some of my parents' matter-of-factness. I didn't complain when my family broke the engagement some months after, though. Neither did I complain when they took the awful habit of engaging me and then breaking the engagement several times a year. Did it really matter? As long as my parents said I was "so mature", "a good girl" or "a most understanding daughter", everything was perfect. Just perfect. I used to love my parents in a way I can't even understand now. I could have died for them a million times, and then again. 

The love of men didn't interest me. Men didn't interest me. Only _their_ love. Only _them_. And they liked it that way, for they would always bad mouth everyone in sight. If I wanted to prevent them from yelling at me, I just had to show how I trusted no one or to find one or two cynical things to say. Of course I didn't mean it. Well, at least at the beginning. Had I not married Gorlim, I would have ended up being their living image. 

_Monsters, let me count the ways in which I hate ye_. 

As I've said, men didn't interest me. I found them most uninteresting and stupid. I didn't like girls either. I can't remember if I used to have friends, but I don't think so. 

Anyway, finally I met _him_. Gorlim. The man who married me. I can't remember where we met, though. I wish I could. It wasn't in a very interesting place, I think. Maybe in a street (not that I would have let a stranger talk to me in a street!), or on the market place. I only remember one thing: I found him myself, he wasn't the choice of my parents. And he was madly in love with me. One day, I began to tire of being my parents' perfect daughter in general, and of being yelled at for still being unmarried in particular, so I made him understand that it would be great to marry. In a quite childish way, I hoped my parents would hate him because he wasn't wealthy nor powerful. But he was sweet and loving, and far from being poor since he owned a nice land. Eventually he melted their hearts. And mine. For I wasn't bad, no. Not at that time. 

I was married for about a year when it happened. I hadn't really understood the whole situation. Was there a war or something? Gorlim said he had to fight against "the darkness", as did "the other men". But the other men he was not, and I didn't let him go. He said I was being selfish and not very brave. We would often quarrel. 

I was indeed being a coward, even if I could never admit it, but I couldn't bear the fact that he could die, leaving me alone and loveless again. He loved me so. I needed him so. He stayed. 

One day Gorlim came home. I saw he had been crying. 

"This time I really have to go, my love, for some orcs have killed your parents". 

I had to let him, of course, for it was now a matter of honor. When he left, he cried again. I didn't. I felt cold and empty, and nothing really mattered anymore. It was the last time I would ever see him, and I knew it. I knew it. 

Oh Gorlim, you told me you wanted me to be yours one last time before you left, and I answered that I would rather be dead. Forgive me, for dead I am. 

I became lonelier than I had ever been, then. No children, no husband nor parents anymore. I didn't live in a town anymore since I dwellt on my husband's land. The servants had left us a long time ago, because they felt in danger. I started to live in fear. Fear of being attacked. Fear of having one of Gorlim's friends coming here with tears in his eyes to tell me that something had happened to him. I would spend hours looking through the window, waiting for. . .what? I hardly slept at night, for the emotion caused by every single noise would almost make me faint. Was it Gorlim coming back home? Or an orc? Even an orc would have been better than these painful fears, and these even more painful hopes. 

I thought my life couldn't have been any worse. . . Oh, how wrong I was! 

I learned on the market place that there had been a great battle and that the war was over. Over and lost. But did it matter? It meant that Gorlim was going to come back! 

But he didn't. One day I met one of his friend's wife; she told me that our husbands were with a man called Barahir, because they didn't accept Morgoth's victory. 

"Our husbands are heroes" she said. 

"If Morgoth's deeds are more important than my being alone, then be it." 

She looked shocked. Why? Well it's only much, much later that I finally came to understand how horribly wrong I had been. . . 

When food became scarce and the nights got colder, I found myself stupidly hoping that death would come soon. And it came sooner than I expected. 

I was collecting firewood in the woods nearby when. . . oh, how painful it remains, even centuries after! Let's say it. It's my fault, at least partly. After all, nothing forced me to act foolishly! Maybe, had I not been wandering in the woods at night, many people would not have died a horrible death. . . 

As soon as I saw them, I knew it was totally useless to run. So I stayed where I was, standing, holding my firewood in my arms, like the baby I would never have. 

I heard the orcs laughing and speaking to each others in their strange language, as they came toward me. Was it a coincidence? Was it Fate? The wood felt suddenly too heavy for me to keep on carrying, and I let it fall to the ground. The orcs heard it, of course. 

I don't want to think of it. 

Why should I anyway? 

Because I'm no coward, maybe. Or because I have worse memories I really don't want to think of. My death. Oh Manwë help me, I don't want to remember how it feels to die. How it feels to be killed. . . 

They looked at me. I looked at them. How many were they? A dozen, I would say. I was alone. They probably saw me without any difficulty, for orcs' eyes are used to darkness. I could hardly know their number. 

They didn't move. Why? 

I felt like hours had already fled. And nothing happened. It may be my imagination, but it really looked like time had been stopped in Arda. The only thing I clearly remember is this most stupid thought: "So, in the end, I am really going to end up like my parents." 

Stupid, really. So stupid it actually made me laugh. 

As soon as I laughed, that odd feeling of suspended time disappeared. Alas. 

"Why are you laughin'?!" one orc yelled. 

"She's laughin' at us, Agnok!" another one said. 

I wanted to answer, but I was unable to talk. 

"Hey snaga, 't looks like this. . . thing's laughing at you!" 

"Yeah, an' she said you're the most moronic orc she's ever seen!" 

They seemed to be teasing the orc they called "snaga". He seemed to believe them though, and he didn't like what he had just heard. . . 

"Are you laughin' at me, you. . . dirty. . . thing? I'm gonna teach you a lesson you'll never forget!" 

"Kill her! Kill her!" The others seemed to find the whole situation they had created very funny. I suspected it was not the first time they were doing something like that. I prepared to die. 

And then, he came and rescue me. No, it was not a charming prince who saved my life, but the leader of the herd. Less romantic, isn't it? 

"What are you doin', you're bloody retarded or sumthin'? We don't find fresh meat so often here! Stop that and let's bring her to the camp!" 

And so they did. 

"We an't gonna eat you, skinny. Not before you put some meat on your bones. But that's great, we need a slave." the leader said. I wish he didn't save me. 

I had to cook for them. They could, and would eat almost everything in sight, but they particularly enjoyed meat. Beef meat. Horse meat. Some less. . . common. . . other kinds too. . . Anyway. . . At least, I had no cleaning to do. 

I thought my life couldn't have been any worse. . . Oh, how wrong I was! 

There was a frenzy of activity at the camp that day. Only Eru knows why I dared to ask for some explanations. The first orc I asked told me to "shut the fuck up", the second one to "mind my own bloody business", but, oh miracle, the third one actually muttered something like "The lord's comin' cuz of troublemakers". Which lord, I asked. But I guess he thought answering one time to a slave was already good enough. 

I had my answer soon enough, though. 

The orcs had built some kind of tiny castle for that lord to live in, so I supposed he was going to stay some time. He never came to the camp, but one of his lieutenants did. And he noticed me. The first days he would only talk to me while I was cooking or gathering wood. But eventually he grew tired of trying to seduce me by being a gentleman, and losing all patience, he caught me and tried to kiss me. 

"Let me go! Don't touch me, for my husband would kill anyone who would lay a hand on me!" I yelled at him. 

"Oh really? I'm not afraid of him. I'm not afraid of anyone, in fact. But make me laugh: tell me who he is. Some dirty peasant unable to write his own name without help, I guess?" 

"He is no peasant at all, even though his name isn't famous. He is Gorlim, son of Angrim." I said, trying to regain my calmness as soon as I could. 

But there was an most evil glow in his eyes now. 

"He is one of these bloody rebels, isn't he? That's so interesting! You will have to explain that to Lord Sauron, whore!" 

"Don't call me th. . ." A slap across the face interrupted me. For the first time I tasted blood. He grabbed me violently by the arm (strangely, I remember thinking I would have bruises), and I had to follow him. 

As soon as I entered the manor, I started to cry, as silently as I could, because I didn't want another slap. From that moment on, I knew that I would never, ever leave it. I was going to die there, surrounded by darkness, and cold, and evil. I thought about praying, but I didn't, for I felt that this manor was a Valar-forgotten place. 

Orcs locked me up in a tiny cell. It was awfully dark, because there wasn't any window. I was given no food. It lasted for days. How many? I don't know. 

I had nothing to do. Sitting on the floor, I thought about my life with my family. I tried to remember old songs of my childhood. Sometimes, there were most strange noises. I wasn't afraid, for I didn't fear death anymore. Or so I thought. I would try to convince myself that I wasn't really there. I would told myself I was in the garden of my house, and that it was night; the stars were hidden by clouds, that was why it was so dark. Nothing more. Too bad I couldn't truly fool myself into believing it any longer than a few seconds. 

Because of hunger, thirst, fear and despair, I would often faint into nightmare-filled reveries in which, for example, my long-dead parents, so decayed that I could hardly recognize their faces, cursed me for being a traitress. I didn't understand why, at that time, for I wasn't one. No. Not yet. 

So I would wake up and cry, if I was being lucky enough. If I wasn't, it would go on and on. . . 

I didn't lose my mind though. I've always wondered how I managed to. 

After days and days and days of lonely suffering, at last, someone opened the door of my cell. I remembered the corridor was very dimly lit, but my having been in such an absolute darkness made me feel like I was looking at least at the sun itself. 

"Get up, gal! The master's waiting!". 

"It sounds like an orc", I thought. I tried to obey, but I was too feeble to move. 

"Fuckin' lazy humans" another orc muttered while putting me on my feet rather brutally. I didn't want to make them angry, so I tried not to fall, with all my might. Not even having had a mere drop of water in days (or weeks?), I started to be quite light-headed. I felt myself falling, falling, falling. . . And I knew no more. 

Someone was giving me water. My throat was so dry that I could hardly drink. It hurt. 

It somehow got better, and finally I opened my eyes. My vision was blurry, but I saw the person giving me to drink was a woman. She looked young, and had black hair and black eyes, like my mother had. I didn't know someone with black hair could have so white a skin. She was sitting next to the bed where I was. I didn't remember why I wasn't in my cell anymore, but didn't dare to ask, for above all I feared to be locked up in the darkness again. I couldn't stop looking at her. She looked tall and thin, and I have to say I felt more than slightly jealous of her dress and her jewels. She smelled of perfume (my mother would have said it wasn't lady-like), and her face was noble and elegant, even if her eyes were hard as black diamonds, and told me that she usually got what she wanted. And that the ways to obtain it didn't matter to her. 

A man entered the room. I couldn't see him; he wasn't close enough for my still blurry vision. 

"That's enough now. We're losing time." He said. 

"Shouldn't I give her some more water, my Lord?" 

"No. Leave _now_." 

As she seemed to hesitate, he said, hardly louder: "Out-of-this-room. What part of it don't you understand, Thuringwethil?" 

Getting even paler, she stood up from the chair and bowed to him, saying: "As you command, my Lord" before leaving as quickly as she could. 

I was alone with him now. 

He sat where the woman he called Thuringwethil had been, one minute ago. I saw him very clearly, then. But I turned my head to the wall, for I didn't dare staring at him as I did with the woman. 

"Did your parents never tell you that it is quite impolite not to look at the people who are in the same room as you?" he asked me, sounding really interested. 

I would have been way less frightened if he had been calling me most horrible names, or maybe just "whore" like his lieutenant did. . . 

I didn't understand my fear at that time. Now I do. It is terrifying when someone who is supposed to be evil is being polite and nice, because evil is never more deceptively attractive, and because it tells us that being nice and being good aren't the same. And well, if they aren't the same, how can you tell for sure who is good or evil? 

I used to see evil as orc-like. Stupid, ugly, aggressive and terribly vulgar-speaking. The lieutenant should have been worse than the orcs, and Sauron worse than the lieutenant. Instead of that, it was quite the contrary. 

At the same time, I felt that this gentlemanness could very well disappear in a twinkling of an eye. He certainly wasn't being feared by everyone for no reason. So I turned my head back, trying not to shake and shiver, but not managing to. 

"That's better, little one. I suppose that you know who I am, don't you?" 

I tried to answer him as politely as possible that I did. 

"I have learned by one of my men that you are the rebel Gorlim's wife. Is it true?" he asked, as nicely as before. 

There was no need to lie. I was sure he knew it was true, and he didn't sound furious, so I nodded. 

"Where is he now?" 

"I don't know. He left without telling." 

Sauron looked surprised. Suddenly afraid that he might think I was lying, I rapidly add: "I didn't want him to leave but he did so I'm not interested in him or in what may happen to him anymore." 

Something in my voice must have betrayed my true feelings, for my declaration made him laugh. 

"So he leaves without your consent. How hard it must be for him, how bad he must feel. He must be completely obsessed with what he did and with what might happen to you, the poor wife he left all alone. . ." He sounded like he was speaking to himself more than to me, so I answered nothing. 

Neither of us speak again for what felt to me like an eternity. Then he looked at me, and said, laughing: "I guess he's got enough guilt to start his own religion". 

I somehow managed to prevent myself from laughing. Almost. 

I didn't even begin to understand what it really meant before some orcs took me back to my cell. 

He was corrupting my soul, trying to make me just like. . . Thuringwethil? Him? Melkor (not Melkor, Morgoth)? 

After all, why not? My parents always say powerful people were great role models. 

It was my right to be angry at my husband, but laughing at him with. . . Sauron. . . no more, no less. . . How horrible, how incredible. . . I was a disgrace to the noble blood and the proud name of my family. 

How could I be so sure? After all, they were always criticizing everyone and anyone. . . laughing at people. . . especially men. . . no? 

At that time, I didn't realize that it was Sauron who was planting these thoughts in my soul. The struggle went on and on. But at the end, I lost. Had I not been in that Valar-forsaken place, alone, lost in a darkness that meant so much more than a mere absence of light, things may have been different. Completely different. For I'm sure I wasn't evil at the beginning. I hope so, at least. I hope so. I hope. 

Some hours (days? Weeks? Months? Years? Centuries?) later, I was brought to Sauron again. 

Smiling as he was happy to see me, he said: "Rejoice, Eilinel, for you're going to take revenge on the one who caused all your sufferings!" 

Darkness was in my soul. Shame on me. May I be damned eternally, for I thanked him. 

He smiled again, but not the same smile as before. 

What can I say? Everything was lost. He told me I would be brought in my house (let's say its ruins). There, I would have to cry and call Gorlim as loud as possible. Of course it would have to look natural. Of course. As if I needed to be told such a thing. After all, darkness was in my soul. 

I did. 

The rest is history. 

The myth doesn't mention the fact that I betrayed my husband (more or less) willingly. It would. . . is spoil the right word?. . . the story. . . 

But it does mention the fact that I'm no longer alive; it's true. I don't want to speak about it, but I have to. I want the story to be complete. People always judge everything and everyone. At least, I want them to judge me on what I really did. 

Sauron promised me to let me go after the crying and calling thing. I believed him. And I was right, for he did. 

"Lord Melkor told me that death was gift from the other Valar to men. Thanks to the Valar so-called love for humanity, you're only born so you can die. There's no other choice. The youngest and purest newborn is already condemned. What do you think of it, girl?" 

I didn't think anything good about men, love, family or life in general anymore, but I still had. . . maybe not trust. . . but hope. . . and faith. . . in the Valar. I didn't want to see the Halls of Mandos as being as hellish as some people liked to depict it. 

"You don't answer, Eilinel. . . That's not a good thing. . . How can I be sure you're not planning to betray me, now?" 

Sauron wasn't speaking nicely at all anymore. I was so afraid, I felt like crying. . . but no I had to be strong, my parents wanted me to be strong, strong as a boy, strong as the heir they never had, but a heiress is better than nothing at all, right? Certainly! So I answered: "I won't betray you, my Lord." 

"Flattery doesn't work on me. Calling me your lord doesn't mean anything. You could very well be planning something. Of course it wouldn't work, but I would have to modify my own plans. I don't want it. I don't want you to have late remorse and to warn your husband by shouting something stupid and cliché like 'Beware my love, it's a trap!' and then run away with him. Not that you could go very far before being killed, but better safe than sorry." 

I didn't understand what he was saying. I didn't want to. He hadn't told anything, but I knew, even if I didn't want. I started crying, not even trying not to. 

"What are you going to do?" 

"You're going to receive the precious gift the Valar had in store for you since your first breath, Eilinel." Was he joking, or? 

"Please don't hurt me! Please" 

"A cliché again, girl. I'm not going to _hurt_ you but to kill you". 

I had to find something quickly. I did: "But if you kill me, I won't be able to help you with Gorlim?" 

He laughed. "Don't worry about that, little girl. Killing the body doesn't destroy the soul." 

Then I knew there was no escape. I couldn't do anything to survive. But at the very least I could die in a honourable way, like my ancesters always did. 

"I don't really understand, but I don't care. Do kill me. Do it before I'm even more corrupted. I'm quite happy to die now that you haven't entirely made me evil." 

"I don't think a truly pure soul could be corrupted. Yours wasn't, obviously." 

This statement made me want to shout and to cry and to kick furniture and to throw random objects at him, because it sounded so mean (so true?). 

"What is obvious is that you planted the seed of evil in me." I managed to say as calmly as possible. 

"The soil was probably great, for the tree grew well and fast and flourished." 

I was going to answer when. . . 

Blinding light glowing in front of me, disappearing as fast as it appeared. . . something looking like a dagger. . . I can feel the blade. . . piercing my heart. . . I'm not a faint of heart (I swear mother, I swear), but I cannot. . . breath. . . anymore. . . I am falling, am I not? Everything is darkening. . . I can see his face so clearly, though. . . He is so pale. . . Maybe I'm not dying, maybe I killed him. . . Yes, I pierced his heart through and through to save Gorlim, to save my honour (my honour is already dead, maybe we're all dead). . . Sauron himself is dead, I killed him. . . Why am I bleeding, then? You can recognize aristocrats by their white skin, Mother said. Being pale is elegant. Being dead can be elegant too, I guess. But who will love me when I'm dead? 

"What do you think now, girl? How great, how marvellous a gift it is!" 

His voice ended the reverie violently. I opened my eyes. I was no heroin. I hadn't killed Sauron. I was dying, couldn't stop crying, trying not to cough even if I there was a strange taste in mouth (oh I knew it was blood, I knew it, but I just didn't want to actually see it), lying on the floor in a puddle of blood that grew with every heart beat. 

I noticed he had blue eyes, just like my father (Mother, Father, are you waiting for me in the Halls of Mandos, or did you forget your always so disappointing failure of a daughter?). Did it mean something? Why did it take me so much time to notice? 

"Melkor is right", I said. And I died. 

As a ghost I did what I had to do, then I was free to go. I didn't go to Mandos', though. I was too afraid of the judgement, for Gorlim was caught. Not unlike me he believed Sauron. Not unlike me, he betrayed the people who meant everything to him. Too bad I learned we had so much in common so late. He was braver than me, but I already knew that. 

He went to the Halls even though he had so much to pay. Sauron didn't kill him himself, but he had the orcs do it. I watched but didn't see, for my eyes were blinded by tears. 

I don't think our souls will never be together again. I would rather it never happens. What would I tell him? "Sorry but I always trust beautiful and elegant people with eyes like my fathers'"? So cliché. 

I am still too afraid to leave, even after millennia. I will always be. Eternally I shall haunt Arda, knowing everything, known by none. The world has changed, but men's hearts haven't. What remains of the world I used to live in is Sauron. That won't change for I think he will never ever fall. I could be mistaken though, even after centuries and centuries and centuries. But saying I hope I'm mistaken would be lying. Some plants grow easily but are almost impossible to destroy. One of them grow within my heart and my soul. Its name is Darkness. 

Forgive me my last words, if you can, but don't forget them. Pray for me, for I'll never see the Halls of Mandos. Pray for Eilinel, wife of Gorlim son of Angrim.


End file.
